I was once told that anger lowers your I.Q. by 10 points– that allowing my rage to escalate will have the inverse effect on my ability to form a clear thought. Although I’ve certainly made an ass of myself enough times to see the merit in that theory, I don’t think the equation is that simple. It’s not anger that causes stupidity, or stupidity that causes anger. They’re two sides of the same coin that arise from a single flaw:  lack of preparation.  The anger stems from the shock of an unpleasantly unexpected event—an abrupt indignation that sparks a feeling of “how dare they!” And the stupid, well, if you’ve ever procrastinated on a final exam, or witnessed some poor soul stutter his way through a presentation, you should be well aware of the role that preparation plays in stupid.

Once anger and indignation rear their heads, they’re going to immediately begin to build a dam in your mind that will block any and all intelligent thought from reaching the surface, effectively sealing off the rational part of your brain. Yet, you know as well as I do, that once some jerkoff hits that nerve, not responding isn’t an option: you’re hurt, offended, and feeling unjustly attacked.  Any time your pride is wounded, your first instinct is to fight back; and unless you have the emotional discipline to step back and take a deep breath, you will be in the first stages of your transformation into an angry idiot, and a shouting match will be close behind.

Here’s the thing about an angry idiot:  deep down he or she is aware that they’re being irrational and should stop talking immediately, but the logic and reason necessary to make that decision are trapped behind the dam. While that dam is in place, and the Angry Idiot has control, he will never admit to being wrong. He’s come too far in defense of his pride to turn back now.  The Angry Idiot just wants to bask in his justified rage for as long as it has control, with the sole purpose of wounding the other person more than it has been wounded.  That’s why we find ourselves not only saying horrible things that we don’t mean, but shouting them at full volume. The Angry Idiot knows it only has a small window of opportunity before the dam breaks and we begin to regret ever letting it off the chain in the first place. So, it does maximum damage while damage can still be done.

I’m not asking you to avoid confrontation from fear of losing control. I’m asking you not to confuse self-respect with an inflated sense of pride. I’m asking you to take a few deep breaths, and do your best to keep the idiot at bay. Essentially, I’m asking you to fucking think.

Ladies…gentlemen…I implore you to stop this madness. Must we play this never-ending game of hormonal chess with each other? This delicate dance of P’s and V’s: all of us wanting the same thing but having to act like we don’t, because the only sure fire way to blow your chances is to say what’s really on your mind–to have a single moment of emotional honesty. After a year and a half away, I find myself inadvertently tossed back onto the field with a fresh crop of players, and the odds heavily stacked in the female favor. Around here, a pretty girl can march straight through the social scene like the pied piper, playing a chord that only the y-chromosome can hear.

Some are clearly more practiced than others, and given the desperation of some of my more youthful male counterparts, I can see why they so easily clean house. It doesn’t take much:  a coy smile from across the room, or a gaze held just past casual eye contact; an animated giggle, and a light squeeze of the upper arm; or the careful turn of a phrase that says nothing, but implies everything. They give just enough evidence to inspire hope, but not enough to make a case, granting themselves built-in deniability on the off chance you get bold and make a public confrontation. So, not only do you get turned down, but you look like a jackass in the process. Folks, I’m no stranger to rejection, and I do appreciate that a woman has to keep her guard up when surrounded by this much unchecked testosterone; but, the nerve of some of these girls…is truly breathtaking.

Allow me to illustrate. I met a girl for a date, and judging by all of the traditional criteria, I assumed it was going well. This assumption was further supported by her agreeing to accompany me to a second venue. Nevertheless, we get five steps in the door when she runs into a guy she knows, and without another look in my direction, proceeds to leave with him an hour later. No goodbye. No raise of the glass. Not even an apologetic head nod, as if to say, “It was nice to meet you, but shit happens.”  I’m sure she meant no ill will toward me, but she burned a bridge simply because she could. She had options to the point that my opinion of her was expendable.

Regardless of where you come from, that’s a dick move. And it sucked…to a surprising degree. Historically, in such circumstances, I would sulk over a beer (or six) and concoct some smartass remark designed to hurt her feelings and salvage my remaining pride. Instead, I did nothing. Because what’s the point? I’m sick of this game and all those who play it; so, for the first time since hitting puberty, I’m voluntarily opting out. I say ‘voluntarily’ because I think we all have a little abstinence forced on us from time to time; especially the boys, and especially in the beginning.

Hell, I even hated the game in college, where there was ample genitalia to go around. Where it didn’t matter what brand of swamp monster you happened to resemble; every twinkie could find a cream filling…and every Jack, a box.  But here?  In this place? Where lady parts reign supreme and my competition is young and reckless? I say nay!  Nay to the countless hours spent trying to translate text messages like I’m cracking the Zion mainframe. Nay to the anxiety of seeing my phone light up and mentally prepping for another round of “what-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-mean?” And a most sincere nay to the manipulative way members of both sexes protect themselves from social backlash. A feat normally accomplished simply by avoiding definition, like the tried and true “but we never really defined what this was.” Which, for the uninitiated roughly translates to “I’m taking advantage of a loophole in social norms to drop a steamer on your heart and still save face.”

Look, it would be usless to say I’m not tormented by the exact same urges I’ve been demonizing, as these archives are littered with evidence to the contrary. I do have those urges, but I also have a steady supply of herbal apathy…a legal bag of “who-gives-a-shit,” if you will. Now, obviously, this is only a temporary solution, but it beats the hell out of the alternative:  two weeks of passive aggressive ping-pong and a $60 bar tab just to hook up with an aspiring alcoholic who may or may not wet the bed? Thanks. I’m good.

And yes. Of course I realize I’m generalizing an entire population in an unfairly specific way…but I was pissed…and this is how I deal with my emotions.

I sent you a text last Saturday, February 20. It read, “I see you’re on your way.”  I sent it having no idea that it would never reach you, and never suspecting that we had already had our last conversation. It was intended as an innocuous way to get your attention. Knowing what I do now, those six words are almost eerie in their simplicity: “I see you’re on your way.” To where? I don’t know, and probably never will.

I didn’t know you for long, and as much as I would like more time, asking for it now seems as selfish as it is futile. If you had time to give, I wouldn’t dare ask you to spend it on me when there are so many more deserving. From the moment I met you, it was clear that you were someone toward whom people naturally gravitated. A pretty girl with bright eyes and a big smile that came almost as easily as the ones you inspired in others. I remember seeing you sing at “Twist” just before I left Cleveland, and hearing you belt those high notes so hard I thought you were going to blow the damn speaker out. But as I covered my ears, I had to smile, because you couldn’t care less. You weren’t singing for them. You were singing for you.

You were a natural inspiration for the creative at heart, wanting nothing more than to share the gifts you were given, and encourage others to do the same. You loved without prejudice, and you sang at the top of your lungs. You were a bright spot in this world, with a personality immune to corruption. And you still are, perhaps now more than ever. You’ve gone somewhere that your memory can’t be touched. You’ve become an ideal: an inextinguishable light inside every single heart that let you in.

People always have trouble understanding why the good are taken from the world while scum are left standing. I, on the other hand, have always found this dilemma quite simple. Souls like yours are taken from us because this world doesn’t deserve them. We are too weak, and too indifferent to our neighbors to understand someone with so much love to give. We constantly try to stay afloat amongst our own anxieties and selfish ambitions, not realizing how much harder it would be without you.

Now, I am left even more pathetic, forced to keep treading with the added weight of your absence. All I can do now is hope, fear, and lament. Hope, that your passing was easy. Fear, that it wasn’t. And lament, that I never asked you to stay.

Not to say that there’s only one thing I don’t like about myself (I have a list). However, the one that’s currently bothering me is how easily I form crushes. Anywhere I go, whether it’s a class, a job, or just a social circle; there’s always a girl that I gravitate towards, and create excuses to talk to. The most unfortunate consequence of this emotional defect is that it turns me into a functioning moron. I get all fuzzy inside, and think “If it feels this good, it must be love!” like some kind of socially impaired Disney princess that was locked in a tower her whole life. Which, by the way, would seriously fuck somebody up. I don’t know where Disney gets off marrying these women into royalty. I mean, come on, Rapunzel? There’s no way her head was the only place that that hair was growing. The girl would be a total yeti. Not to mention all the weird ticks she’d form after spending her childhood in isolation. Mob bosses and murderers lose their minds in solitary confinement, but a teenage girl is going to come through all rainbows and butterflies? No way.

Anyway. In the past, this fairy tale mentality has typically caused me to get impatient and make it weird.  As a result, the rational side of my mind has developed its own voice. His name is Lewis, and he’s an asshole. Lewis’s job is to keep a detailed record of all the memories I’m ashamed of, and then bring them up whenever my self-esteem gets too high. He’s like my Cinderella safety valve. Any time I get overzealous, Lewis just pulls the appropriate file, like “Hey hey, pump the brakes Peter Pan. Remember the time you tried to kiss Erin McArthur* after 5th period and she screamed “stalker” in your face?  Yeah. Sewed yourself into a real asshat on that one. You should probably abort this mission unless you want to hate yourself for a month.”

Now, here I am again. In a new place, with a girl in my head, and Lewis chirping in my ear 10 times a day to tell me what a piece of shit I am. All the while, Purple Unicorn Princess is on my other shoulder riding a flock of butterflies into the horizon, and playing a magic lute that makes my wiener feel like sunshine. It’s always hard to say which one will win out, because my rational side is relentless, but the princess doesn’t need much of a window to strike. She’s fast, she’s reckless, and she’s extremely persuasive.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Footnotes:

*I don’t want to talk about it.

No matter who you are, where you come from, or which spiritual school of thought you subscribe to; at some point in your adult life, you have told an inanimate object to f*ck itself. Maybe you break bottles in your garage, or punch holes in the dry wall. I, personally, have invited every single one of my earthly possessions to eat a dick at least once. Even though these objects hold no bias nor bear any grudge, they must suffer our abuse. For if we direct that aggression at the true objects of our rage (each other) half of us would be felons, and the other half would have been beaten to death before we hit grade school.

I try to not lose my temper, and for the most part I’m successful. I once calmly waited 20 minutes at a drive-thru window just for a milk shake. What was my reward for such monk-like stoicism? A greasy paper bag full of processed meats and cheeses. Whereas most would have only left with high blood pressure, I was gifted with a treasure trove of delicious treats. All for me, and all for free, just for not being an ass hat about it. Granted, I was loopy on painkillers and had nothing better to do, but that’s not the point.

The point is that patience pays off (and drugs help). Therefore, I practice it at every conscious opportunity (patience, not drugs). We all have days when the smallest thing pushes us right up to the edge of incoherent rage. Like a co-worker coming to a dead stop in a high traffic area; a group of teenage girls laughing just one octave too high; or a judgmental old man glaring at you like it’s your fault he left his family in a communist country. Some days, I want to get right in his wrinkly face and ask him what the fuck he’s looking at. But I don’t. Because screaming at strangers is frowned upon. (Also a great way to get tased)

Instead, I suppress it, and wait for the appropriate context: “a safe environment” where I can “inflict minimal harm to myself and others.”* Allow me to illustrate.  Imagine, if you will, dropping a pencil under a table. You go to grab it and miss. You reach for it again, and miss. The frustration builds. Then, you reach a third time, and alas! You got it! But as you lift your head to get up, it smacks the underside of the table, and the pencil falls. Now, what I should do, is take a deep breath and realize that I am the source of my own frustration. What I do do, is snap the pencil in half, flip the table, and tell it I’m glad its family’s dead.

Harsh for people. Fine for tables. They don’t have feelings.

Now, I know my psychiatrist would say something like “It’s healthier to channel your emotions into more creative outlets, like yoga, or cross-stitching,”  but he no longer has vocal chords. So he can’t. So, I say why settle for self-improvement, when self-destruction is so much more gratifying?

Footnotes

*Goddamn shrinks think they know everything.